Well, here I sit dearest of all my worldly possessions (outside of possibly Clyde, my trusty Radio Fl yer), deprived of all things adventurous and inquisitive. I was placed under house arrest, but after I asked father if he had any whore's lying around that I could schuff, he was mortified (though slightly proud judging by the twinkle in his eye and the slight ease he took in paddling me) I am now confined to my man cave. No, that's no good, man cave sounds as if I were a swarthy brigant with no class or distinction...or had a penchant for cupcakes! ZING! Oh, Malcolm, you are so wicked.
I do need a name for my inner sanctum. Hmmm. If it is to be a true base of operations, it needs a front. Before I got hungry and asked to prepare the meal that made father so upset, I was rummaging through Father's papers (as I am wont to do, I don't understand them but it makes me feel so deliciously high-brow that I just get all tingly in the middlins) when I came across a pamphlet called "Front Doors for Back Deals."
I need a business to confound that Y.S.G. so that he will never again stumble upon my plans and thwart them. I had several good ideas, one was a cat laundering service called "Pressed Puss" in adorable little "kid-print" lettering, but decided against that as Unca Macbeth would keep me so busy it would defeat the whole purpose of having a front. I also thought about a bakery called "Lil' Malcolm's Sugar n' Stuff" but surely Macduff would darken my door from open to close eating my wares until he ran out of money, which he would then undoubtedly leer at the remaining confections all afternoon...slobbering all over himself. :::horf::: No. Thank. You.
I finally decided on a piloting company. It shall be called "The GoodShip Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC." I will include DonalBORING on the officious papers so that he will be responsible for all the "legal stuff" that goes along with a small business. When we hit chapter 11, or when "The Man" father keeps talking about figures out what kind of organization we are, DonalBORING will be chased by the Feds and I shall have undoubtedly accomplished my purposes by then.
:::WAIT:::
Hold the proverbial phone, what if I include YOUNG SIWARD on the legal papers? He could use a stay in jail...but with all those dashing good looks he wouldn't last very long, if you know what I mean...because...I really don't. Unca Banquo says that a lot, about everything. I never know what he means. I tried to get Lady Lennox to explain it to me once (after I offered to pick up some more Love Buttah for Angus at the store, as Unca Banquo insinuated that he was out) but she simply laughed at my expense, as is her way, patted me on the head, and jauntily sauntered back to her dutiful occupation of "protective observation" of Unca Macbeth's private quarters. Sorry, Diary, that is neither here nor there.
I am off to fill the rest of my unoccupied hours drawing balloons of friendship and clandestine proceedings.
Fiendishly Yours
Y.B.P.M.
Showing posts with label MacDuffcakes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MacDuffcakes. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
We Need To Talk About Banquo
Diary, it's time.
It is time we had a serious talk about ... well, about Uncle Banquo's weekly whoring.
Don't take this as an aspersion. My beloved Uncle Banquo is a veritable Dionysus in a three-piece suit and someday I hope to be just as much of a dandy as he -- provided I can make some earnest progress in any or all of the areas I've aforementioned.
But I am troubled by Uncle Banquo's strict adherence to form and protocol as regards my accompanying he and his band of merry roustabouts when they sally forth on their Friday Night outings.
Angus can go, of course. Nobody gives him the shoulder of coldcuts. A welcome fellow at any brawl, I'd bet. I doubt he even had a mother, so strapping of a dash-hound is he. The man was born with those Devil-may-care locks, that wry looks, surely he's been whoring since he was in short-pants!
And Ross, that self-appointed occasional guardian of my Lady de Leche, he tags along to document every ribald occasion with his flashy-bulb camera. From that contraption he makes stacks and stacks of foty-graffs. I look at them and I think "A bawd, a bawd!" -- then he catches me, shoves them back under his mattress and shoos me away like I had no business sneaking in his bedroom late at night. He was sleeping, after all, so why should he care if I peruse his picture pages lit only by the lights of a few hundred fireflies in a jar?
And speaking of Lady MacD, even her man-accessory has permission to march in the weekly parade of mashers! Mr MacDuff himself! Why I've seen him in their company on many such an outing. Though I may not go, I do keep a trusty telescope on my window sill, right next to a steno-pad I use to document his every move. "He's drinking the brandy." "He's puffing on a cigar." "He's pulling a cupcake out of his jacket pocket and biting it lasciviously." "He's asking Banquo if they can stop at the corner shop for more cupcakes." "He's recoiling in pain as Banquo slaps him across the pate and calls him an addict."
So why, Diary? Why won't Uncle Banquo let me join in the festivities?! I've asked the Lady Lennox what it is they do when they're out and about. She turned, winked at me in a way that made me feel strangely moved, and said simply, "Oh, dear Malcolm, you know they're out whorin' again." When I asked her to expound on her answer, she bit her lower lip, then said, "Oh, you know ... hootin' and hollerin' ... makin' time and sowin' oats." As is my practice when I'm not entirely certain at all, I continued to stare at Lady Lennox, eyebrows raised like highwires. But she must've had somewhere to be, as she sighed, said "Oh, Malcolm, bless your precious, precious heart," and walked out the door.
As such, I was left to deduce. And deduce I have. It is obvious to me now that Uncle Banquo is leading Angus, Ross and MacDuffcakes to his secret farming lair, where they all are engaged in the production of temporally-displaced oats from which to make time-traveling oatmeal. The breed of oats must be called Whore, of course. And one of them must always be on guard duty to scream at passing owls that threaten their work, lest those owls hoot the secrets of their magic future breakfasts to The Competition. Et voila, as the Italians say: Whoring!
So that's it, Diary. When next I see Uncle Banquo, I'll let him teach me once again how to blow smoke rings and how to hold my brandy, but then I'll lean over and whisper, "I know about the oatmeal, Uncle. The time-traveling whore oatmeal." Then, seeing what a brilliant nephew I am, he'll be all too happy to bring me along for next week's whoring!
Watch out, Whores!
Y.B.P.M. shall know you at last!
It is time we had a serious talk about ... well, about Uncle Banquo's weekly whoring.
Don't take this as an aspersion. My beloved Uncle Banquo is a veritable Dionysus in a three-piece suit and someday I hope to be just as much of a dandy as he -- provided I can make some earnest progress in any or all of the areas I've aforementioned.
But I am troubled by Uncle Banquo's strict adherence to form and protocol as regards my accompanying he and his band of merry roustabouts when they sally forth on their Friday Night outings.
Angus can go, of course. Nobody gives him the shoulder of coldcuts. A welcome fellow at any brawl, I'd bet. I doubt he even had a mother, so strapping of a dash-hound is he. The man was born with those Devil-may-care locks, that wry looks, surely he's been whoring since he was in short-pants!
And Ross, that self-appointed occasional guardian of my Lady de Leche, he tags along to document every ribald occasion with his flashy-bulb camera. From that contraption he makes stacks and stacks of foty-graffs. I look at them and I think "A bawd, a bawd!" -- then he catches me, shoves them back under his mattress and shoos me away like I had no business sneaking in his bedroom late at night. He was sleeping, after all, so why should he care if I peruse his picture pages lit only by the lights of a few hundred fireflies in a jar?
And speaking of Lady MacD, even her man-accessory has permission to march in the weekly parade of mashers! Mr MacDuff himself! Why I've seen him in their company on many such an outing. Though I may not go, I do keep a trusty telescope on my window sill, right next to a steno-pad I use to document his every move. "He's drinking the brandy." "He's puffing on a cigar." "He's pulling a cupcake out of his jacket pocket and biting it lasciviously." "He's asking Banquo if they can stop at the corner shop for more cupcakes." "He's recoiling in pain as Banquo slaps him across the pate and calls him an addict."
So why, Diary? Why won't Uncle Banquo let me join in the festivities?! I've asked the Lady Lennox what it is they do when they're out and about. She turned, winked at me in a way that made me feel strangely moved, and said simply, "Oh, dear Malcolm, you know they're out whorin' again." When I asked her to expound on her answer, she bit her lower lip, then said, "Oh, you know ... hootin' and hollerin' ... makin' time and sowin' oats." As is my practice when I'm not entirely certain at all, I continued to stare at Lady Lennox, eyebrows raised like highwires. But she must've had somewhere to be, as she sighed, said "Oh, Malcolm, bless your precious, precious heart," and walked out the door.
As such, I was left to deduce. And deduce I have. It is obvious to me now that Uncle Banquo is leading Angus, Ross and MacDuffcakes to his secret farming lair, where they all are engaged in the production of temporally-displaced oats from which to make time-traveling oatmeal. The breed of oats must be called Whore, of course. And one of them must always be on guard duty to scream at passing owls that threaten their work, lest those owls hoot the secrets of their magic future breakfasts to The Competition. Et voila, as the Italians say: Whoring!
So that's it, Diary. When next I see Uncle Banquo, I'll let him teach me once again how to blow smoke rings and how to hold my brandy, but then I'll lean over and whisper, "I know about the oatmeal, Uncle. The time-traveling whore oatmeal." Then, seeing what a brilliant nephew I am, he'll be all too happy to bring me along for next week's whoring!
Watch out, Whores!
Y.B.P.M. shall know you at last!
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